On Christmas morning when they went to get their breakfast of dry bread and water, not expecting to have anything else, they found to their amazement that both rolls and milk were as fresh as when the children bought them,—and with no sign that the rolls had ever been broken or any milk used! And all that day it was the same! There were not only riches on the roof, but joy and plenty inside the peasants' cottage, where the children feasted and sang as gaily as did the sparrows, fluttering about their Christmas sheaf of golden grain.
—Z. Topelius.
ANTON'S ERRAND
OR
THE BOY WHO MADE FRIENDS BY THE WAY
Far to the South lies a beautiful land. High forest-clad mountains lift themselves toward the sky, and between them spreads a wide fruitful valley. A mighty river rushes southward singing of courage and joy, and from the mountains the merry brooks come hurrying along, the one faster than the other, as if racing to see which would get down first.
In the fields, the grass is tall and full of flowers, the grain waves like a billowy sea, and the fruit trees bend beneath the weight of rich fruits. But more than all else, grapevines grow here. The vines twine themselves in an endless wreath through the valley; and in the long arcades hang millions of clusters of grapes cooking themselves ripe in the sun's heat.
From olden times, an industrious folk lived in this valley cultivating their fields and pruning their vines. They gathered themselves together into small towns which were dotted here and there in the valley's green expanse like birds' nests in a spreading tree. On the surrounding heights rose the proud castles where the nobles lived. They tyrannized over the farmers in the valley, and if the poor peasants made the least complaint, down from the cliffs came the barons, like eagles from their eyries, and dug their claws into their defenseless prey.